


Splitting the Atom

by alexa_dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Barebacking, Coming Untouched, Crying Dean, Daddy Issues, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Finger Sucking, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Lap Sex, M/M, Manhandling, Mental Breakdown, Pain, Pain Kink, Parent/Child Incest, Rough Sex, Spanking, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Wall Sex, background rape, extreme dubious consent, mild bondage, stanford-era fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/alexa_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything blurs inside him—a cry for help, a release from pain, a plea for love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splitting the Atom

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any history of past sexual abuse or depression do NOT read this fic. It contains TRIGGERING material. This fic rides the fence between non-con and dub-con.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s1212.photobucket.com/user/alexa_dean/media/john%20and%20benny/DownloadedFile-3.jpeg.html)  
> 

Dean cradles his face, dizzy from drink, or maybe the codeine pills he’d scored off the bartender for a blowjob. Maybe both. His jeans are soaked. An entire bottle of liquor rolls around by his thigh. He’d hit the table as he went down.  
  
His lips tingle with the sticky-dark taste of whiskey he’d stolen from his father’s mouth. He chases it over and over again with his tongue, memorizing, remembering:  _kiss me goodnight, kiss me hello, kiss me goodbye. Kiss me. Love me. Kiss me. Hold me. Kiss me. Hold me. Love me. Hold me. Kiss me_. _Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,_  like a song in his head.  
  
 _You’re too old for that now._

_Need you to be the man of the house._

John stands over him, backlit and shadowy and so huge Dean feels four again. Dean’s lip is busted and bleeding and he’ll have a bruise tomorrow for sure and it leaves Dean feeling a little satisfied. He deserves this. He wants this. His father’s big hands all over him, against him, pounding him so hard he’ll break through Dean’s ugly casing of flesh and meat and everything tethering Dean to here and now.  
  
Dean doesn’t realize there are tears in his eyes until he looks up to see his father’s face blurred and dark. Dean can’t make out anything, can’t even bring himself to his knees and it’s like he’s spilling over because his hands are clenched on the dirty carpet and his jaw opens wide.  
  
“I gave you everything!” he sobs, “Everything I am is because of you! I’ve done  _everything_  you ever asked!”  
  
Tears break over his lashes, and he can see again-- the scars on his father’s knuckles, some old, some new; smear of bright red blood, single bead falling to the ground. Dean’s blood. Their blood. Purple now, all oxygen depleted, cells dying, like Dean should be.  
  
“You’re drunk.”  
  
“Liquid courage. You should know.”  
  
“You’re my  _son_.” His father’s words cloud his vision like black smoke. John presses his palms to his eye sockets like he can’t stand to look at Dean.  
  
“You’re all I have,” Dean whispers, unbidden, unhidden.  
  
 _“Jesus, Dean!”_  John yells, backhanding the pile of books he’d set on the table. They strike Dean’s shoulder as they fall. “What’s wrong with you? Where the fuck did I go wrong?”  
  
“Sam’s gone,” Dean reminds him, unable to stop. He’s got to put it all out there. Now or never, because later is a promise he doesn’t intend to keep. “He’s really gone. I told you to stop, but you didn’t listen. I said take a breather and you refused.”  
  
“It wasn’t just me—“  
  
“You hit him, Dad! You  _hit_  Sammy! You told him—“  
  
“I gave him a choice—“  
  
“Sure, Dad. You know what? It doesn’t matter.” Dean tips over, gets his knees under him and reaches behind him to the pearl-handled colt tucked close to his body, between flesh and denim.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, the safety clicking as he brings the gun to his temple. He feels empty, calm-- safe with a weapon in hand.  
  
 _“Fuck!”_  
  
“I can’t do this anymore, Dad. Sammy’s gone. You’re not around anymore. I have nothing.”  
  
“Put the gun down, Dean.”  
  
Dean does look up at him then, his teeth pull back from his lips. “Or what? What are you gonna do about it, huh? If I don’t do it now, I’ll do it later.”  
  
“Put it down.”  
  
“Then give me a reason to. Tell me why the fuck I should keep living?”  
  
“Dean, please,  _I love you_  . . . Don’t—“ There’s panic there, terror, but nothing else Dean can recognize. “ _Stop this_. Let’s talk about it, okay? Okay, sport?”  
  
“No!” Dean screams, the barrel cutting into his temple. “No more talking! You  _suck_  at talking. Show me—“  
  
“I can’t—Not like you want me to.“  
  
And there it is. Deep and scar-like and not so much insurmountable as inescapable, the pull of it too strong and Dean can feel himself subdued into the dark that divides them.  
  
 _Kiss me goodnight. Kiss me goodbye. Tell me you love me. One more time._  
  
 _And one last._  
  
 _Daddy._  
  
Dean’s eyes crimp shut as he sucks one long drawn-out breath and then he’s shooting backward, head smacking the ground hard, gun tumbling out of his hand as the pressure point in his wrist is pressed. His Dad straddles his thighs, pulls him part way up, squeezing him so tight against his chest Dean’s ribs refuse to expand, can’t even catch a breath deep enough to complain.  
  
“You  _stupid_  little punk!” He’s rocking Dean back and forth, breaking Dean with the strength in his arms. Dean feels nothing. Lets his head roll back to stare at the popcorn ceiling, at the quickly turning fan that does nothing more than move humid air around.  
  
“You stupid,  _stupid_  boy!”  
  
He must have sensed Dean’s listlessness because he lets go and holds him out by the bicep, the other hand cupping Dean’s jaw.  
  
Dean slaps his hands away, tries to shove John off.  
  
 _“Don’t!”_  The word comes out fiercer and uglier than it has any right to be. Dean likes it.  “Don’t fuckin’  _touch_  me.”  
  
His Dad gives him enough room to get out from under him and turn around, onto his hands and knees. Dean’s face feels raw and stiff. He should have never closed his eyes. He should have never opened them back up. He’s more ashamed of failing at pulling the trigger than he is at propositioning his Dad.  
  
And then John grabs Dean’s hair as he’s crawling away, his head and spine snapping taut as his toes curl from pain and then there are hands sliding underneath his shirt, pushing it up, far enough to cover his head, his face, but not far enough to come off.  
  
And the hands slide back down and under him, unhooking and unbinding him-- belt, zipper, denim tugged down in a hobble over his knees and Dean thinks—  
  
 _Yes. Yes, this. Just like this._  
  
He’s already hard, already moaning and panting and burning. It’s the smell of his father—gun oil, aftershave, liquor, metal, and that other darker, muskier scent, male and overwhelming.  
  
And it’s like when Dean was younger, reaping the consequences of his own behavior and that of Sam’s. He’s sightless and hot, trapped in his shirt, his mouth dry and his throat clicking with every swallow. He guesses it may make it easier on his Dad. Not to see him. To pretend it isn’t Dean spreading his legs, begging not just for dick, but his  _father’s_  dick. And Dean can give him that much and maybe it makes it better for Dean too, to be reduced to a nameless, faceless fuck.  
  
John’s belt buckle clinks and Dean almost expects to hear the hiss of leather through the loops, the first tentative taps against his flank before the final crack and cut of leather on his skin.  
  
But that’s not what’s happening here. He’s not twelve, not sixteen, stiff and scared, hands trembling with anticipation-- not dread--as they had closed around the leather strop in the Impala’s hidden compartment. Shuddering, juddering breaths the only sound in his ear as John had ordered him to turn around, brace himself on the trunk and not to pull away or they would start everything all over again. And Dean would struggle not to, would struggle against the urge to continue the intimacy of it. It had been too close to what he wanted. What he’d needed. The attention he’d craved, that John cared. John cared so much he would do this. Break Dean down and set him right again.  
  
Spit and shadows is all that stands between them now, pushed inside him by thin, slender fingers. Fingers so much like Sam’s, Dean hurts. Hurts that he’s like this-- twisted up and foul enough to want his own father. That he has around the same time he discovered he liked girls’ titties and the way girls smelled on his fingers and tasted in his mouth.  
  
 _Jesus, Dean. What’s wrong with you?_  
  
Everything.  
  
Dean spreads for it as best he can, breathes through each rough movement. Not saying anything, not yet, not now, maybe later.   
  
It’s been a long time for Dean, which might not be very long at all for normal people. The sort of people Sam likes to hang around with. The sort of people Sam left their family for. Because Dean has always known he'd made Sam uncomfortable, made him want to run away and keep away, that maybe Sam knew Dean was what he was and was afraid Dean’s sickness was contagious.  
  
It isn’t enough, just to feel his father’s fingers, can’t reach the ache that makes Dean crazy, makes him fuck, and get  _fucked up_  and scream himself hoarse, from grief, from pain, from the pieces of him slipping away that leave him transparent and cold and unable to feel alive, to feel real, to matter.  
  
He wishes he could say something to make it better, but he’s too afraid his father might leave him there, that Dean’s voice might shock him into the realization of what they’re doing.  
  
He isn’t given much time to adjust into the sting, or brace himself against the floor. The only thing keeping him up is his father’s hand on his hip as he pushes into Dean, and Dean makes a noise because it fucking  _hurts_  and it’s too much, but all he can do is bite into his own arm to keep from sobbing, crying out, grateful for the shirt that hides him.  
  
“Do you want me to stop?”  
  
“No,” Dean’s voice is like steel. The pain and his father’s dick seems to go on and on and on seemingly without end and he realizes he’s trying to get away, but he can’t, he’s caught, his jeans stuck around his calves and pinned beneath his Dad’s knees, holding him in place and he’s sobbing, tears in his eyes. He’s too big, so fucking big and Dean’s toes dig into the carpet as he struggles to push away, but he has a hand on the back of his neck now, trapping him, holding him in place.  
  
“ _Is this what you wan_ t, Dean?” There’s anger in it, so much of it Dean thinks he can hear hatred too; hatred for what Dean’s doing to them; hatred for what Dean is. “You want me to  _fuck_  you? Is this what it’s going to take?”  
  
 _Yes_  and  _yes_  and  _no_  and  _no_ , but Dean won’t say anything because he knows he’ll lose it. He’d beg for forgiveness and forgiveness isn’t what Dean deserves.  
  
When his father’s hips meet his ass it’s with a jolt that’s like the crack of leather, hot and jarring and smelling of smoke and heat. Dean’s mouth opens in a silent scream, his back curved feline into the crush of his father’s body.  
  
John grabs hold of Dean’s shirt, pulls it back and uses it as a harness, twisting it tight between his shoulder blades, his father’s lips against his ear.  
  
“Stupid kid. You’re so stupid.”  
  
 _Yeah, I know._  
  
“ _You're not going to enjoy this_.” He pulls back, a long endless drag that hits the very end of his stroke, head of him catching on Dean’s ring before it rips into him again, a slanting movement that brings Dean’s knees up off the ground with the punch. And Dean holds back a sound of pain in his chest, shaking with the effort.  _"I'm not your lover."_  
  
He braces himself against the next drag and thrust, pressure and fire straight through his core sending sparks of electricity skittering through his body, missing the only thing that would make this good and maybe that's on purpose.  
  
It’s being split in half, torn open and it feels so much like the first time Dean did this, or had this done to him, when he didn’t want it and had been nine years old, that Dean panics and begins thrashing, his abdominal muscles clenching with the feel of the too-large cock in his ass, body taut as a bow string, but Dean started this and he has to finish it and he’s surprised to find himself hard and wet in spite of it all. It's so much like fighting side-by-side or back-to-back, so much like protection, Dean can't help reacting to it, can't help needing it more than air.  
  
His body responds by rote and it makes him crazier and harder and so desperate to come that he starts pushing back into each fierce hot jab, trying to find the right angle, the right rhythm to send him over the edge. He must’ve been making some sort of noise, because his Dad’s hand is suddenly over his mouth, nails digging into his cheeks. Dean bites into his father’s palm, meat bulging between his teeth with the threat of laceration.  
  
The must of sex and sweat, thick as ozone, palpable as rain over his back, the length of his spine, between his spread-out cheeks, hollowed out and stuffed full every half second. His Dad’s balls lap at the underside of Dean’s sac, whitening out Dean’s vision, making him squirm and moan louder into his father’s hand so tight on his jaw he can only breathe through his nose.  
  
And the feel of their bodies slapping together, moving together in tandem, his father’s shirt rucked up and the trail of hair rubbing against the low of Dean’s back feels like love, like affirmation, like completeness.  
  
It’s so good that he can’t speak because he knows he’d be saying things his father wouldn’t want to hear, like  _Dad_  and  _Daddy_  and  _I love you_  and  _don’t stop_ , so he licks them into his hand, writes them with his tongue until his father is moaning loud behind him and starts cursing not in anger but pleasure, like it should be. It should bother Dean that he’s no longer in pain, that he feels slicker than he should, but it’s good, so fucking good now he doesn’t ever want it to stop.  
  
“ _Dean, Dean, Dean,”_  John groans with every stroke, both curse and blessing and Dean manages to get an arm back to grope his father’s flank, urging him faster and harder. And his Dad is so solid Dean imagines he can feel the veins roping his father’s dick, a thick and vital texture lighting him up, a hidden landscape he’s always imagined but never seen, not like this, not hard, even now, can only feel it like a lunar landscape radiant with the sun’s glow and his father lifts him so Dean’s sitting atop his thighs.  
  
He’s getting fucked,  _really fucked_ , can only move so far, impeded by his clothing as his father grinds up into him, upward and inward and Dean reaches a hand back to curl over John’s skull, drawing him closer, and rubbing their lips together until John opens and Dean’s pouring his words into his mouth, down his throat.  
  
The feel of an orgasm collects in his belly, edging and shy. His father’s stubble scrubs across his face, sets it on fire and it fucks with Dean’s head in the best ways until John gets his thumb between them pushes it onto the surface of Dean’s tongue. Dean sucks it into his mouth, slides his tongue over the pad, the knuckle and callus, provoking him. And the hitches in Dean’s chest are less from pain than laughter, than delight, a bright and airy giddiness.  
  
“ _Fuckin’ Christ_ , Dean—“  
  
He rolls his shoulders, leaning back, letting his dad support him, rising and falling in a stomping motion on his lap, their skin making loud  _snap, snap, snap_ sounds in the lamplight, obscenely loud pops. It’s like he weighs nothing and he’s nothing but insistent building pressure, his own and his father’s.  
  
His ass feels like a bruise and he has to feel it, sneaking his hand underneath him and between them, familiar and unfamiliar at once, slick with spit and precome and he rocks back, awed and scared.  
  
His dad’s arm slips around his waist and Dean’s heels dig into his thighs, pleading him to move again, wanting to ask why he stopped.  
  
“Fuck yourself.” It’s a command. “Come on my dick.”  
  
Dean feels his eyes widen and he has to bring his hand to his father’s mouth to rub the taste of them together over his lips. Dean’s legs spread wider or try to. His jeans won’t let him. He twists and stumbles and slides clumsily over the feel of his father, hot and thick and so fucking deep inside, ass cradled by the cant of hips beneath him. John’s fingers move from his belly to his chest, over the curve of his pecs, touching his nipples with his thumbs, rolling them.  
  
 _Love you, love you, love you,_  Dean unsays between them.  _Need you_  and  _need me_  and  _love me_   _like this_  and  _want me._  
  
And it’s the deepest touch inside him, like an impact, that sets him off, makes him rise and fall on the muscular smoothness of his father’s thighs. Everything blurs inside him—a cry for help, a release from pain, a plea for love.  
  
It’s push comes to shove, it’s a dead language used to communicate what can’t be said. His neck strains back, wanting his father’s mouth, the sticky-suck of it, wet animal slick of his tongue. And it seems like his Dad is helpless to deny Dean, because he looks at Dean as he kisses him, validating him without words.  
  
 _He sees Dean_. Really sees him not as a hunting dog at his heel, or Sam’s big brother, or his son, or as a surrogate wife, but as  _Dean_  and it’s with a sudden dash of movement and the clack of his teeth as he falls hard and grinds, that he comes, untouched, with his Dad in his belly and in his eyes and in his mouth and in his lungs. Shivering, breaking tension spending all over his bared thighs, the carpet, the length of his blushing red dick, and his Dad whines fitfully in his ear. Rubs his stubble against Dean’s cheek and hums with approval.  
  
John bites the side of his neck hard, pinching his jugular, and Dean bucks, but John holds, arms like iron bands across his middle. Pushing into him, rough and good and painful. And they’re both slippery with sweat and Dean’s dick refuses to humble, although he’s not as hard as he was before. He jiggles, sharp short punches thumping into him from behind and he feels warm and safe and loved and he realizes his Dad is crying, that he’s sobbing against his neck, digging his fingers between Dean’s ribs.  
  
“It’s okay,” Dean whisper-stutters with the force and quickness of his Dad underneath him, kissing his temple. “It’s okay. It’s okay to be this. It’s okay to need this.”  
  
John shudders and rubs his eyes against the cotton of Dean’s shirt, sharing his pain with Dean like he doesn’t anymore, like he did before Dean hit puberty.  
  
“Why?” he huffs at the end of his stride, only the tip of his cock inside Dean, sacred and profane. Then static as he rushes forward, friction of skin against skin and Dean struggles.  
  
“Why?” Deep, sweet, undeniable, unavoidable pleasure in his gut. _“Answer me, boy_.”  
  
 _“Because I love you_. _”_   He pushes back into the stretching pain, scratches at the forearm over his waist. "Because I've always loved you."

 _Because I want you to need me, to be proud of me. Because I want to please you and not be alone,_  he doesn’t say.  
  
His Dad growls and knocks them both forward, sliding off his back to kneel behind Dean and grip his hipbones and Dean grabs at his shirt, pulls it off his head so he can look behind him and see his Dad’s naked knees spread out over Dean’s jeans, the sounds of his boots crackling with static across the carpet as he shoves into Dean with his entire body, like he wants to break Dean, fuse their bones together or split them apart.  
  
Dean comes again, dry and painful and so fucking shocking he clutches at his own stomach, heaving and screaming out one word, the first word—  
  
 _Daddy._  
  
John comes and Dean has the fleeting sensation of wetness before he collapses with his father on top of him.  
  
**  
  
Dean doesn’t know how he got into the shower except it has something to do with his father. He’s on his hands and knees and his Dad is trying to lift him, but Dean doesn’t want to look him in the eyes and see disgust there.  
  
For now, his father holds him, his chin scratching the back of his neck, one arm over his chest and his soft cock pressed against Dean’s back. Bubbles of soap catch in a tide around Dean’s knees. Dean dry heaves, sick as a dog, and coming down hard from booze and painkillers and fear.  
  
“It’s okay, kiddo. It’s alright. Let it out. Let it go. I got you. I got you now.”  
  
**  
  
They lay in bed together, Dean’s cheek pressed over his Dad’s chest, an arm around his neck and a leg twined in his. The sight of his skin freckled and pale against the dark olive of his father’s is almost too strange and new. He likes the feel of his Dad’s hand in his hair, stroking him absently.  
  
"You've done this before." It's not a question.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
When his Dad doesn't say anything in return, Dean continues softly, "They all looked like you."  
  
The stillness that follows scares Dean into acting, searching for the affirmation he's almost sure he's lost again. Dean doesn't open his eyes as he tips his head up, scoots to kiss his father and John lets him, lets Dean lace their hands together as he spreads himself around his father again like water over stones, ignoring the rich, deep ache inside for the feel of skin and come.  
  
  
**  
  
Dean knows not to press his father too hard. He’s good at reading people, getting them to give in. His father is the first to call and they meet up for a hunt that doesn’t exist. Dean is pushed against the wall in a side alley, bits of brick cutting into his cheek and he has to grin.  
  
“Been a while,” he hedges, gauging his father’s headspace, and glimpsing the fogged-over darkness in his eyes as he swells up, lips, cock, nipples . . . sweat trickling down his spine, shirt sticking to him.  
  
“Yeah.” It’s hoarse, steel on wool on grit. He’s got his hand down the back of Dean’s pants, fingers pushing into him dry and sudden and sharp. “Good boy.”  
  
Dean beams and grates back into the palm between his cheeks, aching. Whining when it withdraws.  
  
 _“Please.”_  Dean’s eyes crimp closed and tight. He’s relieved at the touch of John’s hand over his fly, unbuckling his belt and his buttons, and tugging just enough to expose Dean’s ass to the night. The smell of whiskey on his father’s breath.  
  
Green bottle broken by his foot, beer cans and the pungent odor of piss and trash, but it’s the feel of his Dad that grounds Dean, the sound of his buckle coming undone. His forearm shifting between Dean and the wall, spitting on his bare dick and taking Dean raw and it’s like the mouth of a dormant leviathan, heat and pressure and bright red light all around and Dean has to push up on the balls of his feet because his father is taller than him, broader than him, stronger than him.  
  
It’s never gentle, but Dean doesn’t mind. Doesn’t expect it any other way, because he understands his Dad won’t take unless it’s like this-- angry, rutting fucks, full of resentment and need and betrayal. Because Dean needs to feels safe, and he's stupid with happiness already, secure with the knowledge that it’s not only him anymore and that maybe it never was. And Dean doesn’t lose control over the pain anymore, lets it crowd everything out, become a part of him and later he will finger himself open again, tugging to the ache and memory of his father.  
  
“Dad,” he whispers and John covers his mouth, making him take it back. He licks the salt and gunpowder from his palm, lost in the silent rasp of clothing and the louder snap of skin. John thrusting into him, quick and dirty and bringing tears to Dean’s eyes.  
  
When it’s over, they stumble out together from the alley, Dean’s ass still sloppy with come and spit and darker things, but his heart light, and his head empty and a buzzing electric feel of  _not alone_  anymore.  
  
Dean makes to get into the Impala, but John grabs him, bone-deep press of fingers.  
  
“You can . . .” his Dad’s eyes fall to the ground. “You can follow me. I got a place—“  
  
Dean smiles wide. “Yeah, Dad. Yeah. Whatever you want.”

 _Not alone_.


End file.
